


Don't Get That Sinking Feeling

by chemicalrooms



Category: Outlast (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, F/M, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Masturbation, Mutual Masturbation, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Rough Sex, Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-15
Updated: 2018-02-15
Packaged: 2019-03-18 20:23:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13689156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chemicalrooms/pseuds/chemicalrooms
Summary: Eddie pulled at the bags under his eyes. Too many drugs and too little sleep. The clubs and dives called his name, and he answered their calls. Always. He wasn’t one to decline an opportunity to find willing girls and boys who knew his reputation. They were naive, and he liked that. He thrived off of it. Or rather, regressed because of it. It made him less of a person in the public eye, but he didn’t care. Eddie did Eddie and society could fuck right off.





	1. Pour Me One For the Road

The mirror reflected a deep crimson line running down his nose. With a swipe of his hand, it was gone.

Eddie Gluskin was on another one of his irregular coke binges. He knew the show would be a bitch, so the drugs helped. He looked back at himself in the mirror. His face was rough and scarred from years of childhood trauma and drug abuse. His right eye was stained red, almost like it was extremely bloodshot. The doctor called it “traumatic glaucoma”. Bullshit, he called it. His father had beat him one too many times, plain and simple. He understood that. Not some silly words put together.

He smoothed out his hair. It was a staple of his personality, his trademark look. Shaved sides and a slicked back pompadour. The more poetic ones would call it ebony.

Eddie pulled at the bags under his eyes. Too many drugs and too little sleep. The clubs and dives called his name, and he answered their calls. Always. He wasn’t one to decline an opportunity to find willing girls and boys who knew his reputation. They were naive, and he liked that. He thrived off of it. Or rather, regressed because of it. It made him less of a person in the public eye, but he didn’t care. Eddie did Eddie and society could fuck right off.

He exited the backstage bathroom just as a stagehand rushed by, nearly knocking into him.

“Watch the fuck out!” Eddie spat, throwing up his hands. “God.”

Brushing it off, he made his way to the lounge area of the backstage. His bandmates were sitting on the leather couches, feet up on the coffee table. Crushed beer cans were scattered about. Eddie kicked one from in front of him. “Do we live in a barn, now?” he asked cockily.

Jeremy was about to light up a joint but Eddie snatched it out of his hand

“Oh, fuck you,” he said, tossing Eddie his lighter. Eddie lit it up and took a long drag, passing it to Jeremy after a moment.

“What songs are we doing tonight?” Chris chimed in, plucking a few strings on his bass absentmindedly. A low noise rang out of the unplugged instrument.

“The setlist is on the door. I think we’re doing ‘The Man Downstairs’ first,” Jeremy replied.

“‘The Soldier’ second, I know,” Eddie said.

They discussed the setlist half an hour more until Andrew, their manager, came into the room, announcing two hours until they went on. He noticed all the smoke and beer cans lying around. “Oh, come on! Get yourselves together.” He smelled the air. “Are-Are you guys seriously  _ high _ right now? Oh my fucking God. I can’t believe you guys.”

Eddie stood up, turning to face Andrew. “Listen, I smoke to chill out. There’s going to be at least five hundred people out there. You would medicate if you were in our shoes.”

By now, his coke buzz was wearing off and agitation was starting to set in. A headache was creeping up in the base of his skull, and he felt on edge. He was  _ not _ looking forward to going out and performing.

Andrew reached into his pocket and pulled out a paper. He handed it to Eddie. Unfolding it, his face contorted into a disgusted expression.

“Is something wrong?” Andrew asked, raising an eyebrow. 

“The fuck is this?” Eddie spat, tossing the paper at his bandmates. “When did we  _ agree _ to go on tour?”

“Maybe you should read your contract more carefully before signing.”

“ _ Chicago _ ?” Eddie retorted.

“They love you in Chicago. Hell, they love you everywhere. You can’t weasel your way out of this one, Eddie.”

Chris sighed. Trying to be the peaceful middle ground, he clapped Eddie on the back. “Not like you had anything else to do anyway.”

“I  _ had _ other plans,” Eddie mumbled, crossing his arms. Writing songs, doing a fuckton of drugs, and screwing a whole lotta women. Bile rose in his throat and he suppressed the urge to vomit or blow up or both. “You know what? Fuck this.” He threw his hands up. “Fuck  _ all _ of this.”

He headed for the door, but Andrew spoke up. “Hey! You got a show soon!”

But he didn’t bother listening as the door closed loudly behind him. The cool air hit him like a ton of bricks and he soon regretted not wearing a heavier jacket. The noise of the city beckoned and the bar lights called his name. 

He heeded their call.

 

Jeremy sat down roughly on the couch. “What the hell are we gonna do, now? We can’t go out there without a singer.”

“Well, we  _ could _ . Or we could cancel. Eddie would love that, I’m guessing,” Chris retorted.

“Fuck that. Don’t give him the satisfaction of getting his way,” Andrew said, crossing his arms.

“What else is there to do? People are lining up, waiting for  _ him _ . We can't crush them like that.”

“You’re right.  _ Fuck. _ Why does he have to pull this shit on us now?” Chris spat. Suddenly, someone popped in the doorway.

“Everyone all right in here?” the man asked.

“We’re all right, Waylon. Thanks,” Andrew sighed, running a hand through his hair.

“Waylon, right?” Jeremy said nodding to the man. “Do you know Eddie?”

Waylon scoffed. “Course.”

“Go to the bar down the street and find him.”

 

Eddie tossed his head back and felt the liquid burn his throat as he swallowed it. He knew he should go back, go perform for people who say they love him.

Love; he scoffed at the thought. How could they love him without knowing the true him? They only love what they think his lyrics mean. Do they even know what the lyrics mean?

“Hey,” someone said, climbing onto the barstool next to Eddie. “They said you'd be here.”

Eddie looked sidelong at him. “Who are ‘they’?” 

“Your band mates. They're worried about you,” the man said.

“Oh, fuck off,” Eddie said dramatically. “They're only worried about getting a bad reputation.” He looked at the man. He had short, blondish hair. Glasses, too, which was cute. “Who the fuck even  _ are  _ you?”

“A roadie, mostly.” He stuck his hand up to the bartender. The man behind the counter slid a glass of amber towards him.

“New guy, huh?”

“You could say that. Been in the business for years, though,” he tossed the drink back and grimaced. “You should go back. Show’s starting soon.”

Eddie rolled his eyes. “Hell, no. Why should I?”

“Well,” Waylon started, “for one. They care about you.”

“They only care about money and women.”

“The same things you care about, it seems.”

Eddie thought about it for a moment. The dude’s got a point. “What’s your name?”

“Park. Waylon Park, at your service.” He faked a half bow, which made Eddie smile.

The smile turned into a smirk. “Waylon, huh? You with us for the tour?”

Waylon gave an indignant expression. “Tour?”

“Yeah, we kick off in three weeks.” Eddie ran a hand across his face, sighing at the thought of leaving so soon.

“I guess I’ll have to come, then, if you’ll have me?” Waylon asked, downing the rest of his drink and setting the empty glass back on the bar. “I’m gonna head back. Show’s in,” he looked at his watch, “ten minutes. Come if you wan-”

Eddie stood up from the barstool, leaning over to grab his wallet out of his back pocket. He threw a wad of bills on the counter and headed for the door. Waylon looked at him questioningly, but didn’t think anything of it as he followed Eddie out the door and onto the busy city streets.

 

Jeremy paced back and forth on the backstage floor. “We’ll  _ have _ to cancel. Tell them,” he gestured to the direction of the crowd, “that Eddie got sick or something. Hospital, sick. They know he’s strong, so if we say hos-.” He knew he was rambling, but he couldn’t stop.

“All right,” Chris sighed, throwing his hands in the air. “I’ll go make an announcement. If I  _ ever _ see Eddie again, I’ll-!”

Suddenly, the backdoor to the venue opened, bringing in a blast of chilly air. Eddie stood in the doorway with Waylon.

“Well?” he asked. “We have a show don’t we?”


	2. Besetting Sin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am terribly sorry for the long wait on this. With most of my works, I have a grand idea, write one chapter, and the lose inspiration for it a week later and forget where I was taking the story.
> 
> But now I am back, in glorious technicolor, and more inspired than ever to write this. I want to thank those two lovely people that commented, urging me to continue. I had lost hope for this, but it makes me glad to see people want more. You asked, I delivered.
> 
> Chapter 3 coming soon. I love you.

Eddie took a long drag of his cigarette as he looked around the room. The girl was just putting her jeans back on. What was her name again? Angie? Delilah? He couldn’t remember for the life of him, but he knew she gave amazing head. 

“Leaving so soon?” he toyed, putting out his cigarette on the ashtray on his chest.

“You gonna miss me?” she picked up on his tone. She tossed his shirt on the bed.

“Maybe.” Lie. “We gonna see each other again?” Please say no.

“Nah,” she said, Eddie breathed a sigh of relief. “I’m onto bigger and better things. More famous men, mostly.”

“Ouch.” Monotone.

She pulled her shirt over her head, swiped her long hair out from the back, and dragged her shoes on. As she was leaving, she looked over her shoulder, giving Eddie one last look. She smiled as the door closed behind her. For a split second, Eddie wanted to run out there and pull her back into the room, tell her to stay with him forever.

Stupid. Stupid. He didn’t even know her.

He set the ashtray down on the table and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. He ran a hand through his hair and pushed it away from his eyes. Eddie picked up his jeans off the floor and pulled them on. 

It was the first day of the tour, but Eddie felt tired, much too tired to continue. He didn’t know where his bandmates were, but he didn’t particularly care. They were in their hometown, Chicago, playing one show as the first leg of the tour. The next city, he didn’t know or care. It was going to be the same setlist over and over and over again, at least twenty times. Eddie already felt dizzy, but he knew the powder in his back pocket would help a little bit.

 

Waylon watched as Eddie and his bandmates played through the first few songs with vigor. The backstage area felt cold and alien. He had never gone with a band on  _ tour  _ before, but he welcomed this new experience nonetheless.

The first shows were rocky. That first night, when Waylon went to find Eddie, he didn't really have an opinion of him. He knew Eddie’s drug habit, of course, and he knew his tendency to sleep around. But, Waylon thought, that wasn't a valid reason to dislike a person. 

But now? His disgust for Eddie was growing. He came to realize how much of a vile person Eddie truly was. He didn't care for anyone or anything. The fans, Waylon could understand. But his bandmates? They were in it for the long haul, and courtesy by damned if Eddie was going to be nice.

Before he knew it, the band was done with their set and making their way off stage. Waylon saw a few fans in the pit, holding pens and papers out, and he also saw Eddie look at them, narrow his eyes, and walk off.

He didn’t know how to feel, but he felt hurt for those people. One by one, Chris and Jeremy came backstage, followed by Eddie. Chris and Jeremy made a point to keep their distance from any stagehands, but Eddie shoulder checked Waylon roughly. He didn't know if it was intentional or not, but Eddie didn’t even stop to acknowledge him.

Waylon looked after Eddie, glaring daggers at his back and hoping Eddie could feel them.

The backstage area was small; smaller than he’d have thought for a venue that size. The floor could fit five hundred people, max. The backstage had a few rooms, sectioned off by flimsy doors. He watched as Eddie went into one of the rooms, slamming the door shut behind him.

He knew what the roadie life meant; no familiar contacts, and that same homesick feeling he knew all too well. It started as a pang in his gut, but then grew to a stabbing feeling in his chest.

Waylon had to find a bathroom--and fast, lest he lost the beer he had for dinner.

 

The room was icy, and too  _ blue _ . The backstage bathroom at this venue wasn’t exactly drug-habit friendly. The sinks were too small to put anything on, and the stall door was rickety. It was hanging on by one hinge only. Eddie sighed.

He pulled out a small, round mirror from his pocket, and with it, a small plastic bag.

Cutting lines out of the powder, he held the glass up to his face and inhaled.

He recalled his first time doing coke vividly. It was an older man, he remembered, but he couldn’t see his face. The man had offered it to him after a one night stand a few years ago.

The high had been like nothing he had ever felt before, though it was short lived. Eddie didn’t know it, but that moment lead him down a path most would stray far from.

In all of his years of drug abuse, coke became his besetting sin--his drug of choice. Though, he didn’t get the allure of it; the high was shitty and left him feeling empty.

He looked at himself in the mirror. He was tired, and he felt it in the deepest parts of his soul.

From the very first moment he truly realized what he looked like, he hated his appearance. He hated what he saw looking back at him. His eye, his scarred face, the deep bags under his eyes, his stupid fucking eye--

A wave of nausea and anger, seething hatred, coursed through him. He didn’t even register as his hand connected with the shitty glass of the mirror in a rain of sharpness and crimson.

Pain was the first thing he felt, then sadness.  _ Extreme  _ sadness, something he had a glimpse of but never truly felt--that is, until that moment.

He looked down at his hand, it was very obviously broken. The mirror was just a thin sheet of glass with cinder blocks behind it, and his hand had connected with that instead of the hoped-for mirror. Blood was streaming--no,  _ pouring _ \--out of his hand in multiple places.

When he looked back up, he saw someone he didn’t recognize.

He knew it was himself, of course, but the man looking back at him looked...foreign.

Though the mirror was shattered, Eddie could still see in large chunks. The man reflected had white powder around his nose, but it was also red. Red seemed to be the color of the day. Red hand and red nose, and a red eye to boot.

But the most startling feature of the mirror man was that he had tears streaming down his face.

Suddenly, the door banged open, leaving a shudder through the room.

That roadie--Waylon, was it?--stood there, staring at Eddie.

“What do you wa--” Eddie started, but that stupid fucking roadie interrupted him.

“Oh, my god,” Waylon said. “You’re bleeding.”

“No fucking shit,” Eddie retorted. In an act of defiance, he used his bad hand--unknowingly--to wipe his face off. That sent a shockwave of pain throughout his wrist, radiating up his arm. He hissed in pain through clenched teeth.

“You need to go to a hospital, right now.” Waylon stepped back, opening the door for a split second before walking out. In that second, however, he saw people look in with surprise and horror. 

He supposed he had that effect on people.

A moment later, the door banged open again. This time, Chris and Jeremy stood in the doorway.

“Dude,” Chris said, “the fuck?” 


	3. To Send a Man Insane

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Short dialogue chapter, furthers the plot but not a lot. Filler? Perhaps.

On this little emergency room cot, Jeremy, Chris, and Andrew surrounded him.

“What were you thinking?” Andrew said from the chair he was sitting in, his head in his hands.

“Oh, y’know,” Eddie said, a fake grin plastered on his face. “Just felt like breaking my hand.”

“I'm glad you think this is funny, Eddie. How the hell are you going to play guitar?” Andrew asked, signing something on a clipboard. He handed it to a nurse who left the room.

“You'll figure it out,” Eddie said. “You always do, Andrew.” 

Andrew groaned. “I shouldn't have to figure this shit out. Why do you insist on throwing your career under the bus?” His voice started to rise. “Is it because you know you don't have to clean up the mess afterwards? Is it because you don't care about your life? Are you really that shallow?” He eyed Eddie with a sort of angry disgust.

“Stop it,” Eddie said, his head down, with anger.

“If you keep this shit up, you won't have a career. No, wait!” He laughed dryly. “If you keep this up,” he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small white bag, “you won't even have a _life_ to live.”

He lifted his head, eyes glaring daggers. “I have it under control.”

“Oh yeah? _Prove me wrong_.” He threw the bag at Eddie and walked out of the room.

Eddie threw his head against the pillow and groaned. As much as he hated to admit it, Andrew was right; the couldn't play without the use of his hand. As for the other things...well...

DWhen Eddie pulled his head up, he saw that roadie again. He was sitting down where Andrew was five minutes ago.

“The fuck is _he_ doing here?” Eddie spat.

Chris was the first to speak up. Jeremy was behind, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. “We have to head out for a bit. He's here to make sure you don't run off.”

Eddie threw his head back against the pillow. “No promises.”

 

The doctor came in sooner than he had expected.

“Well, Mr. Gluskin, it's better than we thought. It's better than it looks, anyway,” he said. “We'll get some stitches in your hand. You'll have to wear a splint for a few days until the swelling goes down, but other than that, there's nothing more to be done. Do you have any questions?”

Eddie looked at the white-coated motherfucker. “How soon can I leave?”

The doctor chuckled. “Soon as we get the split fitted, Mr. Gluskin.” He handed the paperwork to Eddie, clicking his pen and putting it back into his pocket. “I understand you're on tour, Mr. Gluskin? Your health insurance covers out-of-state expenses, so you can walk into any urgent care facility and they'll get that taken care of.” He nodded to Waylon, who smiled in return.

Who the fuck smiles like that? Eddie's annoyance was building.

When the doctor left, Eddie laid back on the cot and closed his eyes. He opened them, however, when he felt that kid staring at him. Eddie could see that he was looking at him, and the annoyance was peaking.

“What?” he grumbled.

“I'm trying to figure you out,” Waylon said.

“No use. We'll be here for a while.”

“What happened to you?”

Eddie set his jaw. “None of your fuckin’ business, that's what.” He looked at the wires and tubes next to the bed. They were there for the next unlucky soul to sit in this bed. There was one burning question on his mind. His reputation was already shot to hell, but he needed to know. “So,” he said, “you saw what I was doing.”

“What you were doing?” he said. 

“Don't play stupid,” Eddie said, a half beg.

“Oh, that,” he mocked. “Yes, I did.”

“Fuck.” Eddie stood up quickly, putting his hand behind his neck.

“Listen, if you're worried I'm gonna tell _the masses_ ,” he waved his hands dramatically, “I won't. You have my word.”

“I'm not worried about that, Wayden.”

“ _Waylon_.”

“Sure,” he deadpanned. “Let me ask you a question.”

“Shoot.”

“Why are you here?”

“I'm doing my job,” Waylon said, crossing his arms.

Eddie rolled his eyes. “No, what are you doing here, in this room with me?” 

Waylon turned his head and sighed. “I don't...actually know. I was helping carry off equipment after the show tonight, and I...felt sick. I went to the bathroom, and there you wer--”

“Didn't ask for a fuckin’ backstory,” Eddie said condescendingly.

“Fine. I went to go tell your bandmates, and they asked me to come along. I don't know why, so don't ask. They warned me you were... _difficult_ , but I could've told them that,” Waylon said with just enough poison to sting.

 


	4. Sugar Sweet, I'll Be

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like I should start putting generic chapter tags in the notes of each one starting now. I also updated the story tags in the preview, and I'll keep them updated as the story progresses!
> 
> Kissing/masturbation

Waylon had called an Uber for himself and Eddie, and his phone said it was about a mile away. He had gone out to the emergency room parking lot. They had gone to a shitty little suburb of Chicago, and the hospital in this part matched. Waylon lit up a cigarette and took a long drag before exhaling. It filled his lungs and sated the urge to hit the nearest thing next to him--a concrete divider--and end up like Eddie, broken hand and a broken ego.

The door banged open and Eddie strutted out. “Speak of the devil,” Waylon said under his breath, taking another drag.

Eddie put his hands into his pockets coolly, bringing out a lighter. “You got another one?” He held out his hand expectantly. Waylon gave it to him and watched as he put it between his lips and tried to close his hands around it enough to light it. His splinted hand made that difficult, but he eventually got it lit. Waylon couldn’t help the laugh escaping his throat.

Eddie looked at him with narrowed eyes, but there was a small smile on his lips.

“When’s the next show?” Waylon asked, trying to fill the awkward silence. “They never tell me anything.”

“Three days. Milwaukee, I think.” Eddie used his good hand to take the cigarette out of his mouth. “They don’t tell me shit, either.”

A black car pulled up a few feet from them. Waylon opened the door for Eddie and climbed in next to him. “The Peninsula on East Superior,” Waylon said as the driver put in the address.

The rest of the ride was smooth. Light traffic. The car had tinted windows, which made Waylon feel both illicit and excited, like  _ he _ was the bigshot the car was hiding. But, like most things, it was a fleeting feeling.

 

Eddie looked at the notepad in his lap and tapped the pen against his lips. 

_ Sugar sweet, I’m-a be what ya need ‘til I get enough. _

No, he thought, scratching out the line. A new song needed fresh lyrics, not the same theme over and over again. Most of his songs consisted of the “I’m gonna use and abuse” type feeling. It started to get boring, as much as it reflected the truest part of himself.

There was a knock on the door of the hotel room. Eddie sighed, tossing the pad and pen on the cushion next to him. He stood up and made his way to the door. “Who is it?” he asked.

“Are you presentable?” asked the voice on the other side. Eddie instantly knew it was Waylon. He had a unique voice, like he had swallowed gravel and had a cold at once.

“Depends on your definition of ‘presentable’,” he said, unlocking and opening the door. He scratched at his bare chest. “What do you want?” This time, the verse wasn’t said with malice, but a genuine question.

Waylon opened his mouth to talk, but his eyes traveled to Eddie’s chest, which was full of small scars. Mostly past fights and accidents. His eyes darted back to Eddie’s. “Just checking in, seeing if you needed anything,” Waylon said. “Jeremy wanted to talk to you later. Something about a new song idea, I think.” He ran a hand through his hair. “I’ll leave you to whatever you were doing.”

Waylon turned to leave, and Eddie made a motion to close the door, but stopped halfway. “Hey,” he said. “Do you know how to play guitar?”

 

Eddie laughed, taking another sip of his beer. “I don’t give a shit if you don’t know how to play an F chord,” he said. “You’re good. That’s what matters.”

“You’re in a good mood,” Waylon said, a smile played on his face.

“Don’t let it go to your head.” A sidelong glance and a smirk. He didn't know or understand why his guard was down or why he was being vulnerable with this man.

Waylon looked at Eddie with suspicion as he picked up his bottle by the neck brought it to his lips. “Why’d you ask me if I could play in the first place?”

“Well, since I-- You know…” He held up his splinted hand. “Do you wanna play for me? Just until I get my hand back.” The question was, apparently, so sudden, as it made Waylon choke and have a coughing fit.

“Excuse me?” he asked, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “I-  _ Play for you _ ? You know you sound crazy, right?”

He waved his hand dismissively. “Yes, I know I’m irreplaceable,” he said, feigning drama, “but you’re a damn good player.”

“I- I- Uh. I’m not so sure.” Waylon looked at his feet. “You’re drunk.”

“I am totally  _ not _ drunk, believe me.” Eddie looked at him. On impulse, he reached out his hand and grabbed Waylon’s chin, tilting it up. “ _ You are a damn good player _ ,” Eddie repeated.

Maybe it was the booze, or maybe it was the look in Waylon’s eyes, but before he knew it, his lips were on Waylon’s. He didn't know who leaned in first. 

Eddie felt Waylon grow tense against him, then went slack, kissing back. When they seperated, a thin thread of saliva connected them.

Waylon looked stunned, looking directly at Eddie. “You are  _ so _ fucking drunk.” A smirk played on his face.

“Am not,” Eddie said, nearly breathless. Eddie murmured an ‘excuse me’ before he got up and tried to grab another beer from the fridge, but stumbled along the way. He fell down, but not before grabbing the sheets to steady himself and taking them down with him. “Maybe I am drunk.”

“What'd I say?” Waylon teased, reaching out his hand to help Eddie up. Eddie grabbed it with a laugh and was hauled to his feet. “I'd better go, before I overstep my bounds. I'll talk to the guys, okay?” He picked up his jacket before walking to the door. “Get some rest.” With a smile, he shut the door and left Eddie to his own devices.

The room became  _ too _ fucking quiet with Waylon gone. Eddie noticed that he  _ filled _ a room, not just occupied it. His voice, his behavior, and his presence put Eddie at ease. He didn't know which was worse, that he cared for someone besides himself or that he cared for a  _ roadie _ , of all people.

No roadies, that was his rule. He could fuck whoever he wanted on tour or off, but no band members or stagehands. He was  _ definitely  _ drunk if he was willing to break that rule on a whim.

Collecting himself, Eddie grew much too aware of the tightness of his own jeans. Seeing no other option, he followed his instincts into the bathroom. He was tempted to just crank it out in the bedroom, but the windows were too big and too  _ bare _ . No doubt there's some paparazzi down there just waiting to get his big break. What the hell's with that, anyway? Eddie thought masturbation to be natural. But whatever.

Turning on the light, the LED lights blinded him. It took a second for them to dim. He sighed, unzipping his pants and pulling his half-hard cock out. He pumped it a few times, bringing it to life.

He tried to think about anything  _ besides _ Waylon; hot women splayed out for him on a rose petal covered bed--fuck him for being romantic. He tried to think of a twink, doing something  _ so explicit  _ he couldn't even think about it without jizzing. Unfortunately. those  _ explicit thoughts _ couldn't even come to him. He couldn't seem to get Waylon out of his head. Waylon, with his mouth open in a moan.

Waylon, what he would look like fingering himself.

Waylon, what his cock looks like.

Waylon, what his cock  _ feels  _ like in Eddie's mouth.

_ Waylon. _

With a grunt, Eddie came all over the sink. It took the breath right out of him.

He looked at the mess he had made. Eddie groaned and began cleaning up. He stopped when he saw a small bag of white powder.

He grabbed it and tossed it into the bin with the used toilet paper.

For once since he picked up the habit, he didn't have to urge to indulge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song Eddie is writing in this one is Dark Disco by King Complex, a lovely band outside of my hometown of St. Petersburg in Florida! Theyre on spotify and apple music, go show them some love <3


End file.
